


promised for never

by nise_kazura



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, High School, M/M, Young Will Graham, will and peter volunteer at an animal shelter together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22014733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: They say if you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were.(And if they come back someone else’s, well.Then maybe you’re the one that needs to be set free.)
Relationships: Peter Bernardone/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38
Collections: EatTheRare 2019





	promised for never

**Author's Note:**

> this is for the eat the rare event! i hope yall enjoy haha. 
> 
> peter x will is the main focus of this fic, but i couldnt completely take out the hannigram, since i made this canon compliant. but if any of yall feel like i shouldnt have included the hannigram tag bc it wasnt present enough in the fic, please let me know!

Will always smelled faintly of motor oil and bayou. (On the other hand, Peter is pretty sure he always smelled faintly of manure.) For whatever reason, this is the first thing that Peter remembers. With it comes other memories: walking past the docks on his way home and seeing Will there, worn t-shirt and dirty jeans, elbow-deep in grease, wiry forearms flexing as he held a screwdriver and fiddled with an engine. Will’s hair flopping in his eyes and the way he’d always use the back of his wrist to wipe his brow of sweat, to avoid getting oil on his face. (It didn’t work. There were always smudges.)

It's not that Peter spent a lot of time watching Will after school, or anything. He just liked taking the longer way home.

(Easier to avoid other people who might otherwise be going his way.)

Besides, there was (objectively) no reason for Peter to watch Will. They were both awkward, though Will was a different kind of awkward than Peter. He was abrasive, scrappy. Terse. Peter was shy, tender-hearted. (Cowardly.) They were both quiet, avoidant. Not personalities that spark when they come together, honestly.

The only thing that tied them together was, probably, Bobby Anderson. Not exactly a glowing endorsement.

Peter understood, vaguely, why the bullies had it out for Will. His blue eyes, soft curls, curvy cupid's bow were...threatening, to some. And Will's acerbic tongue and sarcastic wit only made it worse. Like throwing a bone into the middle of a dog fight.

Peter's appeal on the other hand was as cliché as it gets—funny way of speaking, knobby-kneed and easy to push into a panic attack. (Life as a kid: the banal predictability of everyday horrors.)

They were on about the same rung as far as social ladders go, but that doesn't mean they ran in the same circles. In fact, neither of them had circles. They were isolated splotches. Stains. Peter had been quite sure Will never bothered to look up enough to notice him, nevertheless return the secret kinship Peter had with him. Or maybe he did, and that's why he kept his head so stubbornly down while in school. Peter didn't blame him.

But that all changed the day Will stepped in front of him and punched Bobby Anderson across the mouth.

Peter had had just about enough of it. He'd been sobbing, hyperventilating, cowering against the wall as they mocked him (Bobby's bright laughter was boisterous, delighted.  _ "Stop, st-stop it!" _ he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. It wasn't very funny, but who's Peter to dictate where others find their joy?). The world around him shook, threatening to fall down around his ears as his vision blurred. He'd been so focused on clenching his hands in his hair and over his ears that Peter hadn't even noticed Will until the fleshy smack of fist to cheek sounded out and he looked up.

Will had looked vaguely annoyed and very tired. Peter could relate. He was disappointed too. In all of his secret surveillance, he'd honestly hoped that the day he finally got to speak to Will, it wouldn't be some trite golden-boy-saves-nerdy-girl-from-bullies scenario straight from a bad romcom. Neither of them fit the roles right, anyway. An accidental seating arrangement and fortuitous partner project would have been much nicer, he'd reasoned.

Will didn't bother saying, "Leave him alone." He didn't even bother giving Bobby the chance to recover and get angry. He'd grabbed Peter's arm and together they sprinted, gangly, awkward, teenage growth-spurt limbs flailing and scrabbling across the ground as they booked it across the field and around the dusty bleachers.

When they stopped by the water, panting, Peter still shaking, they didn't look at each other and grin the way Peter thought they were supposed to. Will had his usual scowl on and he barely gave Peter time to recover his breath before he was tugging him over to a small shed, jiggling open a door, turning to Peter, and saying, "You volunteer at the shelter, right?"

Peter, confused and wondering if he was allowed to go back and grab his backpack, nodded.

Will nodded curtly in acknowledgement, then opened the door and was promptly barrelled over by a ball of mangy fur.

That was the first time Peter saw Will smile. (Wide, crooked, dimpled, shot through with a rough chuckle.) The dog panted happily and licked all over his chin and face as Will ruffled its hair, playing with its floppy ears. With a grin still lingering in his eyes, he looked back up at Peter.

"Peter, right?"

Peter nodded again. Swallowed.

"Who, who's this?"

"This is Danny. She's a good girl, aren't you?" he directed the last part at the dog, words tinged with warmth.

Peter inched forward, offering his hand for Danny to sniff.

"You, you want me t-to take her to the shelter?"

Will’s brow furrowed and his mouth turned down. He gave Danny another affectionate pat, hands lingering in her fur.

"Could you? My dad won’t let me keep her."

Peter knelt and scratched Danny behind the ears. Their hands brushed, linked with the dog between them.

“I…I could. Would...would you like to come?”

When Will’s face twisted into hesitant consideration, Peter decided to take a dive.

“W-we could use another hand at—at the shelter. Someone good w-with the animals.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

It had been disgustingly sweet, at least at first glance. Two kids finding something in one another that no one else had bothered to look for. Volunteering at the animal shelter together. Bonding over a shared love for animals. Walks home together, fingers brushing. Looking into each other’s eyes, without needing to say a single word.

(Maybe it’s that last one that did it. Because when Peter looked into Will’s eyes all he saw was the sky reflected in them, a vastness and a depth that spoke simply of possibilities. When Will looked in Peter’s eyes, he saw Peter. That was all that was needed for him, at that time. But perhaps, it wasn’t what he wanted. And isn’t that what romance does? Turn wants into needs?)

—But wait.

Peter blinks away the memory-scent of Will and his engine grumble restlessness, looking instead into the glassy eyes of Sarah Kraber. Why, exactly, Peter is thinking of his jerk of a high school sweetheart while shoveling dirt down a dead woman's throat, he couldn’t tell you.

It's only when Will shows up a few days later, Jack Crawford in tow and a million and one serial killers swimming around in those oceanic eyes of his, that Peter realizes.

_ Oh, _ Peter thinks.  _ So that’s why. _

* * *

The first sign that Will wasn’t just different, but  _ different, _ came during lunch, on a March Monday. In hindsight, it said just as much about Peter as it did Will. They spoke over sandwiches and crackers, huddled behind the science building, on the edge of the field.

“Why…Why’d you do it?” Peter asked.

Will chewed slowly.

“Why’d I punch Bobby?”

Peter nodded.

The silence grew heavy around them, draping over them like shrouds. A cloud passed over the sun, over Will’s face. His eyes flickered away. Peter immediately tensed, sensing that he’d somehow stumbled on something he wasn’t supposed to.

“To save him from something else,” he whispered, finally. Reluctant.

Peter wasn’t sure what he had expected. That Will had been watching him back, and decided to save him? That Will simply needed an excuse to talk to Peter about Danny? That Will had just wanted to punch Bobby Anderson and it didn’t matter when, where, what, how, or for who?

But to  _ save _ him? Save  _ Bobby? _ From what?

He didn’t understand. His confusion must’ve been clear on his face, because Will swallowed, throat bobbing, and frowned down at his mud-stained sneakers, worrying his lip with the edge of his teeth.

“I don’t know. It was just instinct. I saw you there, and—and I could. Could sense—” he shook his head, vigorously. “—And then I just...moved. Before I could think. He deserved it, anyway. Does it matter?”

Peter could tell that Will desperately wanted it to not matter, so he let it go. They finished lunch, and four months later, they gave each other their first kisses. History.  _ Their _ story.

When Will re-entered his life, years later, Peter wondered if Will had known, even back then. If he punched Bobby Anderson so Peter wouldn’t have to stick him in a horse. If it was even Will that punched Bobby in the first place, or if it had been Peter all along.

(Maybe that’s why Will never wrote back.)

* * *

Peter is the one that initiated the kiss. It was an all right kiss, as far as kisses go. Neither of them were experienced, so it was a bit awkward, but it sent a shiver up Peter’s spine anyway.

It was the day before Will left, his father moving them yet again. Will seemed resigned about it. Grim. (Accepting.)

(Maybe that’s why.)

Peter never dared to hope that Will would fight for him. They never put in words what they were to each other; sometimes Peter still felt like the one with the unrequited crush, pining away, even as Will brushed shoulders with him and squeezed his hand tight. Even as they both lied to their parents about where they were going on Friday nights.

Will took Peter fishing once. He taught him how to tie a bloodknot. Will showed him his hand-crafted lures.

(He let Peter try casting one. They both knew who Peter named his after. They never acknowledged it out loud.)

But when night fell they sat on the hood of Will’s truck, lying on their backs and looking back up at the stars.

“Do, do you think God’s out there? W-watching over us?”

“Maybe,” Will said. “But I don’t know if I need him to be there. What can he do for me? His irony is sacrificial. We’re ruled only by his sense of humor. What does that mean for us?”

“I think…it’s comforting. Less l-lonely if, if He’s up there.”

Will’s hand curls around his.

“There are other ways to not be alone.”

Peter feels himself blush, his mouth go dry. He turns his palm over, and laces their fingers together.

Will lets him.

His eyes are deep in the dark. Peter could spend forever falling into them, and in a way, he thinks he has.

So maybe Peter did dare to hope. Maybe, for once, he dared to be angry for himself. Maybe, after all of that, after Will had offered himself in the place of God, Peter wanted Will to fight for him, try to stay with him. Maybe he kissed Will because he wanted  _ something _ from Will, something more than the quiet way he was drawing back into himself. He wanted proof that all of that was real. That it had happened to him. That this was more than what it was.

They were sitting in the back of the truck. The sun was about to set. Will’s face was pinched—he’d just had to say goodbye to all the dogs at the shelter. And Peter kissed him. 

* * *

He promised to write.

It goes without saying, he never did.

* * *

Peter holds onto Kevin like a lucky charm, the warm, wriggling, furry body held close to him for protection.

“I, I knew you didn’t do it. I saw it on t-the news and I kn-new you were innocent.”

He’d wanted to believe. So he did. But it hurt, too. Because Peter had been alone for so many years, and he knew Will was all alone, too, and even after the silence and the long, drawn-out heartbreak, he remembered Will with a sense of lost warmth. He couldn’t bear to tarnish what was left to him with the words of people like Freddie Lounds.

So he chose to believe, even though he knew Will was  _ different. _

He chose to believe there would be an answer to the question he really wanted to ask.

“Why didn’t you write back?”

Will looked down at his hands, and Peter could see all the added years on his face.

“I was afraid. I was afraid it wouldn’t work out, so…I decided to cut it off before it got to that point.”

Peter stared at him. Will sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And…because I was ashamed. I knew how to be right. I  _ could’ve _ been right for you. But I didn’t do that. I let you doubt yourself, didn’t say what I knew I was supposed to say. And you deserved better than that.”

Kevin wriggled against him. Peter nodded, solemn. He had nothing to say.

* * *

It feels like fate, for them to meet again before Will left. Peter isn’t sure where he’s going, but he knows it’s away from him. (Again.)

He hadn’t been waiting. But Will came to say goodbye, anyway. Like he knew. Like he needed to, to let go.

When Peter looks into Will’s eyes, the sky-reflection shatters and he sees all the unspoken promises of their youth spilling out. Peter wonders what Will sees in him, this time. If it’s the same thing he saw the day he saved Peter from himself.

“I have something I need to take care of,” Will says.

“I won’t wait forever,” Peter says.

Will’s hands twitch at his sides.

“I don’t know if—if I can ever be the right one. I’ve—I’ve changed. A lot has happened, So. So I wouldn’t, uh. I wouldn’t’ve expected that of you.”

_ Ah, _ Peter thinks.  _ So that’s why you’re here. _

“You’re a good person, Will. No matter w-what, I’ll—I’ll always believe that.” Belief doesn’t generate truths, after all. Only faith. “You’ll always be my first friend. I won’t forget that.”

Will’s lips quirk up in that self-deprecating, wry way he has.

“You too.”

* * *

* * *

A few months later, Hannibal gets arrested. Will sits in his empty house, and looks at the phone number in his contacts list. He thinks of broken hearts and catacomb echoes, of Peter’s soft smile. Of wine and fireside conversations, and the way Peter treats Will with a gentleness you’d reserve for a wild animal.

Somewhere else, Peter exists, not waiting for him. It brings him comfort, to know that. But was Will ever comfortable with comfort?

Once upon a time, he chose not to write. He can undo that now. He can maybe, just maybe, unshatter another teacup, and keep it this time. Maybe.

His finger hovers over the dial button.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter [@nise_kazura](https://twitter.com/nise_kazura)! :>


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